A Billion Stars, All Falling
by J-to-the-Essica
Summary: Future Fic. The Stargate is made public, how will Mark Carter react? SJ


Title: A Billion Stars, All Falling

Author: Jess M for language and adult situations

Pairing: S/J

Spoilers: Early seasons...vague

Thanks: Sid and Bridget rock my world with their sweet beta skills.

A/N: For deejay435 who wanted to see what would happen between Mark and Sam once the Stargate was made public knowledge.

* * *

Part I: Jack

He's not sure how it began, really. What he remembers is this: one minute he's standing on his deck with a beer in one hand and a skewer in the other, and the next he's being pushed into the house with Carter's tongue down his throat. Yes, Carter. In all the scenarios he'd imagined—and he'd imagined plenty—he never pictured her making the first move because, Jesus, this was Carter, self-possessed and so damned professional, but if he'd known, Oh God, if he'd known she could do that with her tongue, he'd have pressed the issue years ago.

He protests, albeit half-heartedly, because he's only human, but words die on his lips the minute her fingers dance along the fly of his jeans. For that matter, he forgets to breathe until she smiles against his lips and pulls away, her eyes dark with desire and just a little mischief and he thinks maybe she's been toying with him this whole time (God, no, please). She reaches out and smoothes the front of his shirt, leaving her hand to rest low on his abdomen, heat and want and things too complicated to name radiating from the simple touch.

"Hi," she says huskily.

And he knows, he just knows, that the universe is playing a joke on him. She's drunk, or infected by some goddamned alien virus, or possessed, or something, because this woman isn't Carter.

"I never thought I'd say this, Jack, but," she pauses to grin at his expression, "stop thinking so much."

Or maybe she is because no one has ever been able to read him like Carter.

He licks his lips, then, tastes her cherry lip balm, and furrows his brow. "You just called me Jack." Eloquent, he is.

Her smile falters, but she recovers quickly and moves to press her body firmly against the length of his, and he's almost positive that his pounding heart is going to explode right there in his chest.

"Is that a problem?"

Up this close he can see the dark shadows under her eyes, and the hollowed cheeks, and even the prominence of her collarbone peeking out through her half-buttoned blouse. He thinks about those fucking television interviews and the sad way she'd smiled at the camera when Jacob was mentioned and he knows she's confused and hurt, but God, she's looking at him the way he's looked at her for years. She's vulnerable, and maybe a little shattered, and he should walk away.

"No," he finally whispers, allowing his hand to rest against the elegant curve of her neck.

She closes her eyes briefly, dark lashes sweeping across the top of her cheeks and he thinks he's never seen anything as beautiful as Carter. Shadows play across her face and he spans the small distance between them to capture her already kiss-swollen lips with his own. She sighs into his mouth and curls her fingers against his forearm. Stars don't explode, the earth doesn't move, exactly, and maybe his toes aren't curling, but he's never felt this kind of peace before.

He pulls away just a fraction. "What do you want, Carter?" he asks quietly, cupping her cheek. She arches an eyebrow eloquently and he realizes his mistake. "Sam, I mean, Sam, Sam, Sam," he corrects himself, kissing her forehead and the tip of her nose before settling comfortably against her lips in apology.

"Take me to bed, Jack."

He does.

* * *

Muted light filters through the slats of the blinds, bathing the expanse of Carter's—Sam's, he silently amends—naked back almost ethereally. He trails a finger along her spine, a touch not meant to entice, exactly, but to reassure. She shivers and buries her face further into the pillow, murmuring incoherently. He smiles and rests his chin at the juncture where her shoulder meets her neck and presses a gentle kiss behind her ear. She doesn't stir, so he does it again.

Her hand comes up to swat against the disturbance and he catches it just before she makes contact with his cheek. He begins to nibble the pads of her fingers, grinning when her breathing becomes shallow and slightly erratic. She moans suddenly and with a cat-like grace flips onto her back and glares at him through narrowed eyes.

"You are insatiable," she says, though her smile softens the rebuke.

"Good morning."

"No."

Damn it if he isn't grinning again. He's never seen her like this, soft and sleepy and slightly petulant.

"No?"

"Wanna sleep," she explains, closing her eyes firmly and turning her head away from the window.

He pushes her bangs off her forehead and simultaneously pulls the sheet up across her chest. He'd like nothing more than to kiss a blazing path across her naked body, but he knows how exhausted she is and so instead he rubs the back of his fingers against her furrowed brow, trying to smooth out the worry.

"I'm going to jump in the shower."

"Have fun," she says softly, half-asleep already.

He allows himself a few moments to just watch her, smiling affectionately as she finally succumbs to the fatigue that has been stalking her for days, if not weeks. He knows she's been holed up in her lab, backwards engineering some alien technology or other while the world outside the mountain heaves, forgetting to eat and stealing twenty-minute power naps when no one is paying attention. Oh, yes, and avoiding his calls, which explains his presence at his home in Colorado, but certainly not hers.

She sighs softly and his heart literally aches. Yeah, he's screwed.

* * *

He knew it would be like this, perfect and absolute, with the sun streaming in through the kitchen window and Sam standing in the doorway wearing only his t-shirt, her hair impossibly tousled. Christ, he's seconds away from sweeping everything off the table and taking her right there, and maybe she realizes this because she grins and shakes her head.

"Coffee first, please."

She touches him briefly as she walks past him to the coffee maker, fleeting and ephemeral and almost gone before he registers the pressure. Despite all this, he shivers because everything he's ever wanted is rooting through his cabinets in search of a coffee mug and he tries, he really tries, not to watch the way his t-shirt rides up the backs of her thighs so goddamned enticingly.

Sam makes a small noise of disbelief as she glances at the clock over the sink and then turns to face him accusingly.

"Noon, Jack?"

Ah, the eyebrow arch and one hand on her hip.

"Hey, you said you wanted to sleep," he protests, throwing his hands in front of him in the universal 'don't-blame-me' gesture. And then he smiles because she doesn't realize that the clock is actually an hour behind. Maybe he'll tell her later.

"Sleep, not slip into a mini-coma," she mutters under her breath while sweetening her coffee.

He doesn't miss the way she gazes out of the window, nonchalant to the casual observer, but he knows her well enough to catch the vigilant way her eyes search his back yard and it takes him a few moments to realize what she's looking for.

"Uh…I don't think anyone knows I'm in town, Sam."

Her mouth tightens almost imperceptibly. "Yeah, but my car's been parked in your driveway for the last sixteen hours and it usually takes those bastards a quarter of that to find me."

Bitterness rolls off her in waves, tempering the air between them with something indefinable and encompassing. She looks small and so fucking tragic and not like Carter at all. He slides his chair away from the table, ready to stand and take the coffee from her trembling hands, but she preempts him by sliding into his lap and straddling him, smiling when his breath catches quietly- and unmistakably- in his throat.

"We need to get going."

His hands come to rest lightly on her hips and he finds himself drowning in an endless sea of blue. He really hates clichés. Really.

"Okay," he replies, wincing at how strangled his voice sounds. Jesus, you'd think he was some hormone-addled teenager. He clears his throat. "Where to?" Much better.

He's thrown by the sudden change in her demeanor, but becomes terribly distracted by the way she worries her bottom lip between her teeth. She smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes, and links her fingers behind his neck, rubbing her thumbs absently across his nape. Sweet Jesus, she has no idea what she's doing to him.

"San Diego."

Or maybe she does.

"San Diego?" he manages to sputter, surprised at his ability to string together anything coherent, which was her intent, he supposes.

She leans down to nip lightly at his lips. "Yes, San Diego. Home of Balboa Park, Coronado, Sea World and—"

"Mark Carter," he finishes for her, stilling her hands with his own.

She stiffens but still meets his gaze, her eyes inscrutable. "And Mark Carter," she agrees quietly.

"Have you spoken to him since, you know?"

"Very briefly."

"And?"

She stands abruptly, tearing her hands from his grasp and moving to lean one hip against the sink. He's not surprised, really, because when Carter's not talking about things like chromatic aberration, or pair production, she can be devastatingly reticent.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Ah," he replies, idly tracing circles on the table with his fingertip. He gazes at her reflectively; admiring the way the sunlight bathes her hair and cheekbones. "There's a lot you don't want to talk about."

He silently acknowledges the fact that, yes, he is a hypocrite, but more than that, he's in love, and somehow he thinks this absolves him. Their eyes clash and he has the good grace to look away when she pins him with a perceptive glare.

"I know what you're trying to do."

"Oh?" And yes, the nonchalance is **so** feigned.

She doesn't smile exactly, but the corners of her mouth quirk upward slightly. "You're trying to bait me so that I'll confess everything to you in an emotional tirade." She runs slender fingers through her hair, tugging uselessly on the ends. "You seem to have forgotten one thing, though."

Raised eyebrows serve as his riposte.

"That only works on Daniel."

He purses his lips, and then quietly, "Right."

Sam expels an explosive breath and closes her eyes briefly. "Look, I'm not trying to be difficult. If I had known the whole goddamned world was going to find out about the Stargate," and here she pauses to look at him accusatorily, "I would have flown out to San Diego immediately to brace Mark."

Jack moves fluidly from the table to stand in front of her, closer than is probably comfortable for Carter, but she doesn't back down. "I swear to God I had no idea they were planning to--"

"But I didn't know," she continues over him as if he hadn't spoken, " and I had to find out from watching the six o'clock fucking news and by then it was too late because there were reporters camped out in my front yard and I was ordered by the President of the United States to cooperate with the media and I was mic-ed and powdered within an inch of my life and **Christ** there wasn't any time to book a flight, much less make a telephone call."

"Shh," Jack murmurs as Sam rests her forehead against his chest. He rubs her back soothingly.

"He wasn't angry, really, when he called, more confused and hurt than anything. I just need to make this right, Jack."

"You will, Sam," he assures her quietly. "Why don't you go take a shower and I'll call the airport?"

Sam raises her head. "Actually, I was planning on driving."

"You want to drive to San Diego?"

"It'll take sixteen hours tops. Please?"

He sighs, thinking of his knees and back, and feeling incredibly old despite the nubile body pressed securely against his. She turns her imploring and achingly beautiful eyes to him and his resolve literally melts away.

"Well, then, why don't you take a shower while I pack up the truck?"

What a sad, fucking sap he is.

* * *

Part II: Sam

She doesn't know at what point it all unraveled, but she thinks maybe the speeding ticket and the detour to Wyoming had something to do with it. Not to mention leaving the map on a picnic table at a rest stop three hours from Colorado Springs. All, she concedes, her fault, and all contributing to the oppressive silence blanketing the cab of Jack's truck.

She glances at him out of the corner of her eye and winces. And then, as if summoned by the stony expression on Jack's face, the sky opens up and hail begins to pelt the windshield furiously. He swears softly and coasts to the shoulder of the highway, slamming his hand against the steering wheel. She takes some small comfort in the fact that he certainly can't blame her for this latest disaster.

"This is all your fault."

Or not.

"My fault?" she asks incredulously.

He turns obsidian eyes to her and clenches his jaw. Her pulse speeds rapidly and despite the animosity between them, she fights the urge to slide across the bench and rip his clothes off. "Yes, Carter, your fault," he replies condescendingly.

"I can pick locks and build naquadah generators and even help design spaceships, but I'm pretty sure that I can't control the weather."

"This is true," he answers with deceptive calm, "but **I'm** pretty sure we'd have missed this storm if you knew how to read a map or, God forbid, follow the speed limit."

"I said I was sorry, Jack. Fuck, what else do you want from me?"

She slides her eyes away from his by degrees, exhaling sharply and pressing one palm flat across her denim-clad thigh. The air fairly crackles with electricity and she realizes too late how fraught with hidden implications her question is. If the silence was oppressive before, it is positively suffocating now, and even the hail outside has slowed to an occasional dull rap against the hood of the truck. Jack does the last thing she expects and covers her hand with his own.

"I don't know," he answers quietly.

His confusion is tangible, three-dimensional and alive, and it kills her. She realizes that none of this has been easy on him either, and notices for the first time how pronounced the lines around his mouth have become. She's never thought of him as old, but responsibility has taken its toll and age has crept upon him when she wasn't paying attention. He squeezes her hand once and pulls away, but she captures his fingers and slides their palms together, willing him to understand.

"Why now?"

She doesn't even try to feign bewilderment. "I honestly didn't know you were going to be home," she whispers. "I, um, sleep at your place sometimes."

She mistakes the look in his eyes for censure and quickly puts in, "Only on the couch, though, and only since the Emmet Bregman documentary. See, the things is," she laughs nervously, "my house is surrounded by camera crews, and photographers, and, swear to God, protestors, so I mostly stick to the mountain. But, you know, sometimes I need to get away."

"Yes, well, that would explain why my bookcase is alphabetized now, I guess," he says softly, almost smiling when she blushes. "So, you've been picking my lock, huh? I would've given you a key, you know?"

And she does know, which is why she's never asked, but maybe he knows this too because he doesn't wait for her to answer. "You must've been surprised when you realized I was home, but you had to know that I would come, Sam. Why didn't you return any of my calls?"

"I don't know what you want me to say."

"I just want the truth," he replies, cupping her cheek.

The tenderness in his eyes nearly breaks her heart and she silently curses herself for doubting him. "I don't want to hurt you."

He smiles humorlessly. "That's supposed to be my line," he pauses, and then, "Just tell me."

"I didn't want you to tell me to grow my hair out."

She knows that if her face weren't so solemn, he'd laugh incredulously. Instead he merely arches an eyebrow. "Um, what?"

"The Joint Chiefs…they're trying to turn me into the poster girl for the SGC. They actually had a focus group of civilians critique my interview on 'Nightline'." She snorts. "Apparently, I'd be more likeable if my hair wasn't so short."

He does laugh then, despite her glare, which just serves to make him laugh harder.

"Oh, Sam, I had no idea," he finally pants.

"It's not funny," she mutters darkly.

He sobers immediately and presses a kiss to her forehead. "I think you're perfect the way you are." He pulls away and holds her eyes with his own serious, dark pair. "I would never ask you to change or do something you weren't comfortable with."

"I know."

"Do you?"

"Yes," she confirms, placing a sweet kiss on the corner of his mouth. She can see he's not entirely convinced, so she leans in, millimeters from his lips. "I guess I just forgot. But when I saw you on the deck, everything just rushed back and you were so warm, and solid and, God, do you have any idea how much I've missed you?" She cants her head to the side slightly and continues, "Also, I was tired of waiting for you to realize that you are madly in love with me."

A low growl is her only warning before he captures her lips hungrily.

* * *

The thing is, she half-expects Mark to slam the door in her face, so when he ushers her inside with a warm hand on her elbow, she freezes, leaving Jack to introduce himself awkwardly.

"We met at dad's funeral," Mark reminds him quietly.

"I didn't think you'd remember. There was a lot of brass there."

"Yeah, but you were the only one holding my sister's hand."

Sam thinks he's being facetious, but she's always had trouble reading his intent and his eyes are unfathomable. Jack is uncharacteristically flummoxed, floundering for a suitable reply until the moment passes and a gradual stillness descends upon the trio.

"Are Jenny and the kids here?" Sam asks, finally finding her voice and hoping it doesn't sound as strangled out loud as it did in her head.

"They went to her parents' for the week. Things have been a little hectic lately." He looks at her pointedly and grimaces.

"Right, God, I didn't even think about that. Are you ok? Have they been harassing you? I can talk to someone from public affairs and see if--"

"It's fine, Sam," he assures her, leading them into the living room. "They stopped calling about two weeks ago. Annie's pretty upset, actually. She wanted to meet Anderson Cooper. I told her you could probably get her an autograph."

"Is there somewhere we can talk?"

If he's puzzled by her abruptness, he doesn't show it. "Sure. We can go to my study. Do you need anything, Jack? Water? Beer?"

"I'm good, thanks."

Sam meets Jack's gaze across the room and feels warmth and affection wrap around her as surely as his arms had hours ago in their hotel room. She allows herself a moment to bask in his support before following her brother down the hall. She barely waits for him to close the door before speaking.

"I'm so sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Sam. If anyone should be apologizing…shit, how many times did I make you feel guilty for missing Christmas, or Thanksgiving? You were out saving the world and I was carving a turkey."

"Don't."

"My sister, the super hero."

"Jesus, Mark, it isn't like that."

He sits heavily in the chair behind his desk, rooting around in one of the drawers until he finds a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey. He unscrews the cap and lifts an eyebrow challengingly as he takes a swig. He wordlessly passes the bottle, smiling when Sam winces at the taste. God, she hates bourbon.

"I used to wish you'd never been born."

His words sink like stones in the room, heavy and irrevocable, and she finds it hard to speak past the disbelief lodged in her throat.

"What?"

"When we were kids," he clarifies. "You were so fucking smart. You didn't even have to try, really. Everything just came so easily to you, and I hated you for it."

"God, Mark, I--"

"But after Mom died I realized that because of you, I was off the hook. Dad didn't really care what I did because we both knew I was never going to be as smart, or successful as his precious Sammie."

"That's not true."

Mark snatches the bourbon from Sam and takes a healthy swallow. "And then I just felt sorry for you. He had your whole life mapped out, and you just ate it up. It was pathetic."

"I don't know why you're being so cruel, but--"

Mark's face softens immediately and his eyes lose some of their glaze. "No, Sam, I'm not being cruel. You wanted to talk; I'm talking. See, here's the thing; I thought I was winning. I had a family and all you had was deep space radar whatever. I'd catch Dad looking at Annie, or Caleb, the way he used to look at you, and I thought finally! I had something you didn't."

"You make it sound like a competition."

"Come on, Sam," he yells hoarsely, pounding his fist on the desk. "Of course it's a competition!"

Minutes pass and the only sound in the small room is Mark's harsh breathing. His resentment poisons the air and her skin feels tight with the pull of it all. She calculates in her head the number of steps to the front door, begins planning her escape when he speaks again.

"I thought it ended with Dad, you know, but one day I turned around and you were everywhere and I couldn't escape this…this thing. I teach Chaucer to tenth graders and you save the world. How can I ever hope to measure up to that?" His pale eyes lock onto hers beseechingly and her heart splinters. "Sometimes I wish you weren't so special."

Truth, pure and resolute, bursts forth unchecked. "Me, too."

He raises his head and peers at her suspiciously.

"You don't believe me? I've been shot, kidnapped, killed and brought back to life, and those were the early years. I've done things I'm not proud of, Mark, and sometimes I go days without sleep because I can't shake the nightmares."

"You don't have to explain."

"But I want to," she says quietly.

"I'm not ready yet, Sam. You're my sister, and I love you, but I don't think I can deal with this right now."

"We haven't even talked about Selmak."

He laughs genuinely then and leans back in the chair. "I told Jenny after that first visit that it was like Dad had been possessed. He was so different."

"Selmak definitely had a mellowing effect."

"Was he happy, you know, sharing his head with that, um--"

"Tok'ra, and yes, I think he was. He wanted to tell you, Mark, but he couldn't risk it."

He sighs in his half-exhausted way, reminding her so much of Jacob in that moment that she feels the hot prick of tears in the corner of her eyes. "I know the routine, Sam. We grew up in the same house."

"Right."

He stands then, and pulls her unexpectedly into a fierce embrace. "I promise we'll talk about this."

She nods her head against his chest and allows herself to be lulled by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. She knows about scars and thinks that time, and maybe a little space, will prove healing for her brother. As if sensing her thoughts, Mark pulls away and plants a sloppy kiss on her forehead.

"So, any sightseeing plans?"

"Actually, we have to get back, soon. Jack said something about Vegas, and Elvis, and drive-through chapels."

"You're not serious?"

She thinks it's sweet that after everything he's read and heard over the past few months he can still be shocked by something as mundane as elopement.

"We're still in negotiations. You know how I feel about Elvis."

He smiles brightly and shakes his head. "You are so weird."

He opens the door and waits for her to pass, widening his eyes slightly when she stops in front of him. "Earlier, when you said that you caught Dad looking at the kids the way he used to look at me? He used to look at you like that, too, Mark."

She doesn't wait for him to respond before joining Jack in the living room, but a whispered "thank you" follows her down the hall.

fin


End file.
